


Adaptation for and Navigation of Key Interpersonal Communication Barriers Typical of the Seasonal Workplace Fete: A Simplified Guide

by MajorEnglishEsquire



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Corporate, Alternate Universe - Office, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Party, Christmas Presents, Holidays, Homesickness, Lawyer Sam Winchester, M/M, Office, Office Party, Secret Admirer, Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-23 20:25:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17087162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MajorEnglishEsquire/pseuds/MajorEnglishEsquire
Summary: 47% of Americans are excited to attend their company holiday party.Sam Winchester is part of the remaining 53%.





	Adaptation for and Navigation of Key Interpersonal Communication Barriers Typical of the Seasonal Workplace Fete: A Simplified Guide

**Author's Note:**

> Please note: super minor emetophobia warning.

Seven makes no sense, but that’s what the email says. Seven.

Safe to assume an office Christmas party wouldn’t start at seven _in the morning_ , before the office even opens, Sam shifts in his chair and finally turns the handle of his coffee mug to take a first chug.

Seven in the evening, then.

The private sector sure is a different animal. Every day he’s been thinking he’ll come in to work and it will all finally normalize and he won’t experience some off-center moment of office culture shock and then they schedule the fucking Christmas party to start at _seven_.

He wants to be _home_ by seven, you know? He’d like to be done eating dinner by seven so he can get to bed and actually sleep and get up early and exercise. Like a grown-ass adult. Like a dude who’s aiming for a career and spouse and kids and a starter home and whatever.

Not that any of that has been happening since he was hired on to the company. He’s pulled far too many late-night hours, ordered way too much delivery pasta, and he barely recovers the amount of sleep he’s lost because he’s too eager to spend his weekends holed up in his apartment just disconnecting from work with Netflix or a video game or a real absorbing book. Anything.

He _was_ home by seven when he worked for the county attorney’s office. He didn’t have any problem showing up to the holiday pot-luck and making an effort on the door decorating contest, but out here in the wilds of the regular workforce, they cater hors-d’oeuvres, have an open bar, encourage plus-ones, pay him an obscene amount of money, and _start parties at seven_.

Sam tweets about it, which is becoming a habit, because it’s the only way Dean hears about his days. By the time they’re on the phone at night, Sam’s too tired to fill him in and explain anything. He’s been so absent, lately, and Dean’s already started griping about how he can never talk because he’s always just running off to a meeting.

He isn’t wrong. Stepping it up in the world and getting a little more corporate law experience is exactly what Sam thought it would be – a timesuck and a big, dirty job. But it’s a leg up in the legal world and Sam’s gotta get this under his belt.

Dean replies to his tweet. **Okay old fart. It’s only 7 pm ur jammies can wait. Don’t u want some of that drunken corporate strange? Go make a bad decision for once ffs.**

_Corporate strange_. Gross.

Sam sips his coffee and it slowly dawns on him that...

Dean’s still not wrong.

Oh, ew.

This is a _real_ office Christmas party instead of a polite little gathering done on the taxpayer’s dime where everyone is conscientious about how much time it takes and how many decorations they can reuse and everyone gathers in the break room to scrub out the crock pots, after.

This is gonna be booze and sexual tension and accidentally insulting your boss’ wife and someone is probably—

Oh, dear god.

Someone with _Dean’s_ same frame of mind is probably gonna sneak out to haul their bare ass up on top of a copy machine and make some regrettable decisions that HR will have to sweep under the rug.

He finds himself having fake conversations throughout the day, staring down at his notes and local code, preparing to explain politely to a coworker why he didn’t show up to party with everybody. Making preemptive excuses. Fabricating last-minute travel plans.

The more he does it, the more he feels, keenly, how impossible it’s gonna be to avoid.

He has to assimilate, here. He has to make nice and go try to have fun. Socialize. He’s gonna get a watered-down glass of champagne or something and be the prophetic one, maybe. The one who points at Spengler with a grin and says, _Man, you’re gonna regret that next shot in the morning!_ and watches Zeddmore from Media Relations get his face smacked by Becky from Finance and he’s _fucking really_ gonna have to stand there and watch Ellen unwrap his shitty Secret Santa gift.

Oh, this is hell.

**Hey y’all,** he tweets while microwaving his lunch, the break room empty as always, most the staff in meetings or out at restaurants. **Anybody on Twitter got the flu and wanna share it with me before 7 pm Friday? I have never dreaded an open bar before.**

He gets three likes and one comment. It’s from Dean’s friend Benny.

**Wow Sam. You’re like Scrooge if Scrooge were just a pussy.**

«»

He doesn’t get to even _think_ about leaving the building before 8 p.m. and, when he scrambles back to his office to pack up and dash out before someone catches him for _oh, just one more thing_ , he throws his door shut behind him and almost topples the coat rack yanking his jacket and scarf as quickly as he can.

It’s a mad dash for his bag, pulling a hat down over his ears, and then—  
Fuck.

Then, the inevitable struggle with the pile on his desk.

Does he really think he’ll be able to look over these files while he’s eating dinner? Will he really stay up late to read all the weekly briefs? Does he have to sit and forward emails to his personal account and does he _sincerely have to_ spend his fucking time off catching up on-

He’s on the point of stuffing the folders and notes into his bag when he realizes the legal pad on top of the pile isn’t his.

It’s got somebody else’s handwriting on it.

He doesn’t recognize the hand – who could he have possibly inadvertently stolen this from?

Sam flips a few pages. Then stops. Goes back to the top.

It’s everything he needs. All the briefs, notes, everything he missed out on, today, while getting dragged into ten different unnecessary meetings.

It’s everything. It’s the Cliff’s Notes of his day cropped into three pages on one mysterious legal pad.

There’s nothing else on any of the other pages. It’s a fresh pad. There’s no name except at the end.

One note, at the very bottom of the third page.

**Sam: Hope this helps. SS.**

What the fuck?

Did they... did they... hire him a secretary and not tell him, or something? Did they assign him an intern?

What th-  
What _ever_.

He dumps all the extra folders and notes and reference books.

Takes only the legal pad and gets back to hauling ass out of the building.

He takes a right-turn-of shame at the first opportunity and settles for drive-thru tacos. Eats in the car and positively crashes into bed when he gets home.

In the morning it’s far too cold for a run around the neighborhood, so he props the notepad up on the treadmill, at the gym, and catches up on everything in the scant half-hour he gives himself before he has to fly off to work again.

The notes helped. There was even a reference for a specific local city ordinance that he’s been looking for, for days.

Clutching his coffee for dear life, in the morning, he flips to the last page of the notepad.

The notes are signed “SS.”

He gets into the company’s 411 directory and starts scrolling. There are four people working in the building with the initials S.S.

Sam knows none of them.

The extension for Sandra Stafford’s phone line starts with an 8. She’s part of the security team. Wouldn’t be privy to anything he’s working on.

Sebastian Singer has the same last name as one of the VPs, top-level. His best guess? One of the boss’ sons, who has a part-time job in the mail room. He thinks he’s heard about him.

Might be him? Maybe? A kid trying to prove himself and get in good with the attorneys?

There’s another Sandra (Sims). Sam’s seen her email address before and does a lookup in his inbox. She’s way down in the thread. One of their connections at the Mayor’s office.

Definitely not.

Stephanie Sinclair only has a number listed. Sam calls it and gets the voicemail for a satellite office across town.

He blinks at his monitor for a minute. He could go ask one of the admins.

And admit he doesn’t know their names yet. And admit he doesn’t really know if Sebastian is their boss’ goddamn kid. And admit he didn’t know what kind of administrative support was available to take some of this friggin’ work off his hands.

Who knew they had someone who could write a daily brief for him?

Oh, god. He’s supposed to go sit with the representatives for the southern division in five minutes.

He hasn’t had time to warm up his breakfast. He’s got no granola bars left.

That goofball, Fitzgerald, walks by his door, grinning. “Four more days, everybody! Four days until Christmas break! Can’t you feel it?! Presents! Eggnog!” he knocks on the doorjamb and points at Sam, crows, “turn that frown upside-down, Sam! Four days until the long weekend, buddy!”

He shoots fingerguns and everything.

Sam nods, slapping on a smile that fades as soon as Garth saunters down the hall taking his jingle-bell hat with him.

His Santa hat.

Santa hat.

Goddamnit.

“I’m an idiot,” he tells his coffee.

«»

Most the people on their floor are attorneys. All of legal is up here. Most of them are young, but have still been there longer than Sam, and clearly have more in savings or did better at negotiating salaries or something because they leave the building for every meal break, without fail.

Sometimes he’ll have lunch with one of the admins, just by coincidence. But usually it’s just him in the break room.

Sometimes it’s lonely and dim and gross with the linger of re-heated fish and he decides to just hole up in his office and read all the gory court transcripts he has to get through.

Lots of other folks have their own mini-fridges, too, and so, sometimes, it’s also just Sam’s lunch and the sad leftovers of somebody’s birthday cake sitting in the break room fridge.

Today it’s the remnants of last week’s sheet cake, some of the veggies the ladies have been using to make smoothies, Sam’s little lunch cooler, a stray Diet Coke, and a brown bag, folded over.

That says “Sam Winchester.”

His name, in bold marker across the front.

He stands up and looks around. Stoops again.

Gets a dreadful feeling this is going to be a sitcom joke of some kind.

But plucks the bag up, anyway, and sets his cooler on the counter with it.

Feels like liquid weight. He tries not to slosh it and snaps the tape apart to fold the bag open and look inside.

There’s a container of soup.

He pulls it out and the napkins gathered around it fly out as he does. One lands face-up, branded “Chinese New York Style.”

That’s the only joint that he’s blown money on, repeatedly, because he doesn’t feel gross afterwards. They’ve got an amazing—

Mushroom soup. Holy shit. This is his favorite fucking soup from his favorite fucking take-out.

The container is extra-large, bigger than he’d normally get for himself. There’s a sleeve with two spring rolls, a fortune cookie, and some plasticware drifting at the bottom of the bag.

And a bright orange Post-it. Signed “SS.”

Secret Santa strikes again.

Warm air rises and where it rises in this building is to the top floors – far from where Sam works. It’s been so cold on this floor that he doesn’t pause to think twice. He shoves his lunch pack back in the fridge and retrieves the extra-big coffee mug Dean got him as a prank. He dumps his binder clips out of it, washes up, and it still only holds half the amount of soup his Secret Santa gave him.

It’s gonna be good for seconds, this afternoon.

He’s almost afraid to stow it back in the fridge lest it look like he ignored it or didn’t want it.

He writes “Thanks!” on the other side of the bag and his pen pokes through the paper.

But nobody steals it and his hands stay warm for the rest of the day.

«»

The morning news filters right out of his head as he powers through the motions in the gym on Wednesday morning. He misses the traffic report because he’s convinced he knows who his Secret Santa is and he also hopes he’s wrong.

He’s late. Naturally, _because_ he wasn’t listening to the fucking traffic he gets caught on the exit with the huge back-up and he has one less chance at figuring out if he’s right.

It’s gotta be Madison.

The handwriting on the notes wasn’t hers, but she’s part of the admin team and she’d have access to his schedule and his notes.

It wouldn’t be great if it were Madison. He didn’t get her anything for Christmas – he only got the one thing for Ellen and hasn’t had the time or the presence of mind to consider getting anything for anyone else except Dean and the sweet old lady across the hall who fed him the first few days after he moved into his apartment.

Things are also complicated with Madison.

He doesn’t know, you know? It was just one of those things. He was new to the company and she was smart and quick-witted and knew everybody and she sympathized with him a lot. She seemed safe and homey to him for some reason. She seemed like she was into him.

Only he read the signals wrong and she’s super committed to the guy she’s with. Yeah, it was real fucking great having to get gently, awkwardly turned down less than a month into this whole life upheaval he was going through. It stung and he deserved it.

Sam doesn’t blame her for it, oh, hell no. It was all him and his weird yearning for home. Not just the simplicity of his old job, but a strange longing to really just toss this whole opportunity out the window and head back across the country. Be able to see his brother every day. Drive the old, familiar roads on the weekends, to Dad’s place for beer and steaks, even if it ended, more often than not, in Dad drunkenly admitting some brand new deep disappointment about how their family turned out.

At the very least he wanted to convince Dean to move out here to the east coast. He never even tried. He knew how it would go.

_Please let it not be Madison._

He would feel so damn guilty if it were Madison. If she pulled his name and was forced to try to get him damn _gifts_ for no reason other than social obligation.

Sam had planned to get a coffee the way she liked it. Leave it in the break room with a Post-it on top reading, “For SS.”

That damn traffic put the kibosh on his plot to place a lure out, though. He won’t be fishing for a response today.

It was probably for the best. He should take the time to think of a real gift to get her. When he goes to the stupid office Christmas party and she fucking steps up and is her usual cheerful, charming self, admitting all she’s done for him, it’s gonna be mortifying. Nice of her, yeah, but also mortifying.

He’s gotta race to get to Conference Room 5. Flies off the elevator. Barrels into his office. Just grabs his stack of case notes and dumps his bag and coat in their place on the desk. He was supposed to be there six minutes ago.

It’s a relief to see Brady and the others milling around down the hall. But they’re grumpy and mumbling mutiny over the rims of their coffee mugs.

“What’s up?” Sam nods. A few of them glower at Aaron, the long-suffering staff assistant who keeps the schedules.

“Somebody else booked our room,” Brady sighs, distractedly texting with one hand.

“Pick another time and place, fellas, but 5 isn’t yours right now,” Aaron stands his ground until most of them disperse.

Well. Sam didn’t really wanna sit there for the next three hours with no breakfast, no coffee, and no ideas for a new offensive play against the merger they’re dreading.

His morning is pretty well _saved_ due to a booking glitch.

Nobody sticks around to reschedule the meeting, though, and Aaron kind of tosses a hand and flops the planner back onto his desk. Goes back to his emails.

He... should probably reschedule. Or at least make an attempt. _Somebody_ should.

“Can we have 5 after lunch?” Sam comes up and taps his pen on Aaron’s desk.

“Not anytime today,” he flips the planner over to the afternoon hours. It’s penciled all to hell, covering the three different conference rooms on their floor. “It’s booked up through E-O-B. You can have it tomorrow? Or see if they’ve got space for you upstairs.”

Yeah. He might.

He spots something.

Looks over Aaron’s shoulder.

No.

“Who booked it out from under us?”

“Uh.” He taps the page. “Says SS? I think they meant ISS, I think the tech people have it because there’s a Smart Board in that conference room.”

No. It’s not the Information Systems Services guys.

It’s Sam’s fucking Secret Santa, saving the day just because he was late for work.

«»

Madison isn’t in today.

In fact, according to her out-of-office voicemail recording, she left yesterday at noon and won’t be back in the building until the new year.

“Well, fuck.” Sam doesn’t really have time for this intriguing little mystery but it’s consuming him, all the same.

An email pops up from Brady.

The team has decided to delay their next session until after the Christmas break.

Oh.

That takes one _gigantic project_ off his plate through Friday.

Geeze. He sits back and takes a deep breath in relief.

Sam’s Secret Santa just unknowingly gave him the biggest gift, yet: More time.

Time to catch up on the tasks that have been slipping through his fingers. Time to finally unpack the last two boxes to fully move himself into this office. Time to find a better rhythm. Maybe even a chance to leave at 5:00 p.m. today, like a normal person.

Time to... shop online for an appropriate present to give them in return for all this generosity.

He takes breaks every half hour or so to Google “best office gifts” and isn’t thrilled with what he’s finding. But, still, he catches up on work. He closes out some files and starts prepping for the project they’ll take back up after the holiday.

Sam’s a tiny bit disappointed he has to settle for the lunch he brought in for himself, today, but only because his hands have gotten cold again. He still has a spring roll left over and not much at all to complain about after he’s made a new cup of coffee.

After lunch, he gets around to unpacking those last boxes and finally arranging the office in some sane sort of way. Supplies are where they’re supposed to go. He finally sucks it up and taps one of the admins to get the hanging file folders in his drawers all tagged correctly and she says, after she’s done clipping all the little tabs in place, “You know, we have a box for you out front. If you just drop off documents, we can sort and file them for you. It’s... kind of our job,” she shrugs a little, clearly trying not to convey that she thinks he’s really fucking slow on the uptake.

He catches her sideways glance at the small, four-seat table he’s got in the corner. It’s always been covered in books, files and junk. Since day-one.

Actually, you know, it didn’t occur to him that he should really have that space clear for when they finally let him see clients one-on-one.

“That would be amazing,” he smiles at her and lets her take his reference volumes to shelve back in the legal library. By the time she comes back, he’s got everything stacked into reasonable piles. Ones that can be shuffled out the door, ones that go in his personal files, and all the other stuff that he hasn’t had time to run around the office and return.

She works quietly and a lot faster than Sam would have.

Her name is... dammnit.

When he sneaks out to go grab another cup of coffee to warm his hands, he looks over the side of her desk to see that there’s a decorative name-plate on the side of her cubicle. Patience. Her name is Patience.

That’s so incredibly appropriate.

He expands his online shopping to include a gift for Patience.

Before she takes the last of his files, he asks if she’ll write down her extension for him, in case he has more questions.

She writes her name and extension on a Post-it and hands it over and he thanks her _and thanks her_ and lets her go.

He compares Patience’s handwriting to the notes from his Secret Santa.

No match.

«»

Thursday feels like Friday which is horribly unfair.

A handful more people are missing from the office and today’s commute was smooth. You can _taste_ how close the holiday is. There are emails about cookies and donuts, left free in the break rooms on various floors and at the reception desks. There are people chatting in the halls, which hasn’t happened in Sam’s experience _at all_ since he arrived here. People were too harried for that, even through Thanksgiving, which kind of felt like it snuck up on them.

Folks are a lot easier, now. The CEO and COO are out of the office as of yesterday. Half the administrative team is out of town and without them there to glue everything together, it feels like high school, when you’d show up to class and a substitute teacher would be there and they just popped in a video somewhat-related to the subject of the week, and everyone kinda passed around notes and whispered and didn’t care about shit.

It gives Sam more time to catch up on work.

When he gets to the break room, he’s the first to start the coffee. He takes his time, cleans the pot better than he’s ever had time to, before. Digs the fancy stuff from his stash and decides to share it. Makes enough for anyone who wants it.

Patience cycles through with a couple other admins and she pours from the electric kettle before heading away to her desk.

She’s a tea drinker. He can work with that. He saw something real good online yesterday. He’s just gotta go through his search history.

It’s a lot cleaner in his office, since yesterday. Everything is where he’s always wanted it except for some cords and an old printer he’s not supposed to touch.

Today, he finally brought his pictures in. He’s got plenty at home, but the nice, safe-for-work ones he had framed so he could keep them in his office when he worked for the county. On display here, they go a long way towards humanizing him. He doesn’t have Stanford school spirit swag. That was never him. He hates talking about his favorite NFL or NHL teams because it kinda pigeon-holes him and he’s not interested in getting into friendly office debates on the subject. He has favorite books, movies, video games, but aside from his Ravenclaw scarf, not much to show for it. Maybe that could change.

Anyway, with pictures of Dean and his other goofy friends from home looking over him, here, the office finally, _finally_ feels like his own safe haven.

He dares to touch the printer they said he wasn’t supposed to mess with. They gave him a newer one, when he got here, and he suspects they had been meaning to recycle the old one but couldn’t find it under his whirlwind of shit.

Sam hauls it up on top of a file cart and pushes it towards the door. He straightens up some shelves, the small table, the tiny couch. And, even though the glass is cool at his back from the winter winds, he pulls the blinds to let the morning sun in.

Once he settles back into his files, he instantly feels more productive. His ideas are fresher. He feels new and vital and, finally, a little proud of himself for getting to this step in his career.

It felt like he trapped himself. Like he left the safe embrace of his government job for something dicey and like maybe it wasn’t gonna work out.

But it can. He feels that, today.

Could just be the four-day weekend up ahead, but he still feels it, today.

«»

After eating lunch, he runs out to see if one of the local shops has some variation of the gift he was considering for Patience.

He finds something a little less ostentatious than what he could have ordered online. After all, he literally just found out her name and he’s already made the mistake of being a little too forward with another admin in the building. It’s a small, wooden slide box with a selection of 15 gourmet tea flavors. They’re able to gift wrap it and everything and Patience is still out to lunch by the time he gets back and sneaks it onto her desk.

Sam doesn’t tag it, except to note that it’s for her. If she thinks it’s her Secret Santa, that’s fine. He doesn’t need credit, she just has to get a little thanks for helping him step into this new mood, this new mindset.

The file cart is gone from his office, he notices as he hangs up his coat. The printer is dead, long live the printer.

When he shuts his door, cutting out the sound of the chatter and ringing phones, he hears something.

A... humming. A sound like... like chewing, maybe?

Something coming from his desk. From his computer.

He sees around the side of his desk that the loose cords that were in his way are now neatly zip-tied into place.

And there’s something fastened on top of his first monitor.

Sam rounds the desk. His screens are on.

He sees... he practically falls into his chair. Dean is on his screen. He chomps into a Twizzler and he’s chewing in that obnoxious way he does when he’s bored or wants attention.

“Heeeey. Sammy,” he chomps again. “Took you long enough.”

“I um. I didn’t have a webcam this morning.”

“No, you didn’t. You barely had a fucking brother this morning, lemme tell you what. You been missing my calls so much I practically forgot you existed.” He points with the end of his candy. “Somebody remembered me, at least.”

“Somebody??” this is baffling.

Dean reaches off screen for his soda. Someone paces behind him where he sits.

“Benny. Look who decided to show up,” Dean nods at the screen and Benny comes back into the frame.

“Looky here,” he crouches down to Dean’s shoulder and nods.

“Dean knows how to work a webcam??” That probably shouldn’t be Sam’s most immediate concern in this entire mystery, but in the background sits Dean’s classic car shop. He’s always been one to wallow in the past and lament missing the ‘good ole days’ that he’s barely been alive long enough to experience. That doesn’t exactly scream ‘tech savvy.’

“How you think we sell these here cars all over the country, boy?” Benny laughs at him. “We put up videos for bidders all the time.” He claps Dean on the shoulder and tosses an oily rag at the screen before he goes.

Dean nods in an I-told-you-so way. “Stick that in your millennial pipe and smoke it, kiddo. I know plenty about technology.”

“Charlie set it up for you,” Sam realizes aloud.

Dean’s actually too proud of their step-sister to deny it. Just shrugs. “So, your Secret Santa says ‘hi.’”

Sam jolts in his chair. “Who is it? You met them?!”

“ _They_ set up the camera for you,” Dean emphasizes. “I ain’t telling who it is, but they said sorry if the quality is crappy. They don’t have many webcams sitting around that will work with your computer. I guess low-man on the totem pole, they don’t give you a lot of good stuff. They better be treating you right,” Dean threatens with his next Twizzler, fretting-but-not-fretting.

Sam blinks. “Uh. Fine. It’s fine. I just. I didn’t have time to get everything set up before and.” He’s looking down at the tied cables. The whole set-up of the computer. He was given brand new speakers, too. The old ones fizzed and cracked and he barely bothered using them.

Like the webcam, the speakers are a bit dusty. Must have been stuff that ISS had in storage.

“Was it an IT guy? The person who Skyped you for me?”

“What’s the fun in it if I tell you?” Dean laughs. “You’ve got the brains in this family, it has to be you who figures it out.”

Between the two speakers is the only picture he keeps on his desk. A tiny photo of him and Dean in Halloween costumes when they were little.

His Secret Santa gave him _his brother_ for Christmas.

“I miss you,” Sam admits, blinking back up at the camera. “I just. I kinda wanted to quit and come home,” he doesn’t know why he’s suddenly copping to it, but his throat is tight and it wasn’t really beer and steak with Dad that he wanted. It was another holiday with his brother, glowing and stacked with crappy dollar-store presents and filled with too much late-night sugar. The last holiday they had together was a coincidental Easter when he went home for Rufus’s funeral.

“I miss. I just. It’s just another year, you know?” he stutters, at a loss.

“Yeah, Sammy,” he leans on his hand in the screen. “Yeah, I know, kiddo. Gotta save up those vacation days for later, though, alright? Next Christmas, maybe. We’ll see if you have a few extra days off, you drive home, we can have a big blowout here.”

“Or fly. You know, so I actually have _time_ to see you,” he gives a bit of a watery smile.

Dean huffs, still not comfortable with the thought that _anyone_ he loves would get into one of those flying death traps.

“Anyway. Don’t quit. You haven’t even had a chance to show them how you really kick ass, yet. You gotta stick it out, Sam. And now you got this,” he points at the screen. “I may not know how to facetime on that fucking phone you got me, but if you wanna Skype me on your lunch, there’s less chance we’ll have to keep playing fucking phone tag. Okay?”

“Yeah,” he knows his voice is a little weak.

“Sammy,” he chides gently, “you can turn on the waterworks all you want, I’m still not telling you who it is.”

Dammnit.

«»

It doesn’t even make much sense to show up to work on Friday, considering how little _work_ is actually bound to get done.

Sam spends most his time trying to keep focus on reading briefs and just... miserably failing at that.

He’s distracted. It’s not just his Secret Santa, it’s tonight’s office party.

Maybe it’s conditioning from his days in public service, he just honestly can’t figure what’s supposed to be so great about being expected to hang out after work, _at your workplace, with the people you have to see every day_.

But the people milling around the office, now openly socializing instead of working, without a care in the world, seem to be pumped for it. They’re talking about the open bar, about how they’ve been dropping hints for their Secret Santas and they have high hopes for their gifts, and about their big travel plans and all the cooking and decorating they’ve been gearing up for.

What they are _not_ talking about is.  
Well.

What to wear to the party.

He’s ridiculously nervous about it. He came to work in his best suit only to find that most others seem to have taken Casual Friday to the extreme. Ugly Christmas sweaters, jeans, he’s pretty sure Fitz is in his fucking pajamas.

He cruises around at lunch, trying to get the blood circulating and... spy on people. But on all the different floors, people are dressed to completely different standards.

In the ISS bullpen, he stops, amazed to see a dude dressed as Santa, casual as you like, continuing to take service calls at his desk through his beard and a mass of padding.

“You need help with something?”

Sam startles, slightly, hearing it behind him and whirls.

He’s a short guy. Sam's seen him maybe once in his entire employ here. He looks slightly concerned, like maybe Sam isn’t supposed to be here. “Um?” he stammers. “I-uh. Was just-”

“Getting a selfie with Phil?” he guesses. “People have been at it all day,” he motions at IT Guy Santa, seemingly just as mystified.

“Does... does he show up to the party like that? Like, is he our 'official' Santa or something?” Sam tries to take an opening to get an answer on his wardrobe dilemma. If he rarely interacts with this guy, maybe he can angle in a way that won’t make it an embarrassing admission of his ignorance.

“Oh, there will be a few of those at the party. Some drunken elves,” he shrugs. They watch someone stop by and lean down to take a picture with Phil. He gives a jolly laugh and holds his belly and leaves his headset on. “Probably a risqué Ms. Clause.”

“It’s not a... costume party, right?”

“Oh, only if you want it to be. Some people show up in suits, some in tuxes and ball gowns and, well, like last year it was below freezing but Ruby had just had surgery and she was feeling no pain, if you know what I mean, and she came in, in just a hula girl outfit. You never know with these folks. It gets pretty...” he wavers. Settles on, “interesting.”

He says ‘interesting’ But it sounds like ‘stupid’ and Sam is a little relieved to think he finally found someone on his wavelength.

“So, basically,” he leans in a little to whisper, “I’m overdressed _and_ this is gonna be insufferable?”

The guy snorts. Shrugs. “You can skip it.”

Oh, god no. “It’s my first year, though. I kinda wanna make a 'team player' impression.”

He looks a little dubious, like he finds Sam kinda cute and naïve.

“I also have to find out who my Secret Santa is,” he adds, in all seriousness. “I’m never gonna figure it out at this rate. This—the person. They’re amazing. I’m starting to think they’ve got a full CIA dossier on me or something.”

“You... think the CIA has a dossier on you?” now he looks like he doesn’t know whether Sam is stupid or silly.

He glares in answer. “Figuratively, or whatever. I’m just saying I owe the person a thank-you. Big time. I can’t blow off the party.”

“But you would?”

Sam can’t deny it. Stuffs his hands deep in his pockets. Phil is posing with someone new, now, as they look on.

“Supposed to be the most wonderful time of the year,” Sam’s companion muses.

“It’s a nice time to catch up on work, that’s for sure. I wanna be in the spirit of it, too, but.” Sam just shrugs. Because it’s too complicated to explain in full.

“Your family’s everywhere else?”

He nods.

“Sorry,” he says with genuine sympathy.

Sam looks down to him and smiles, rueful. “I didn’t mind, last year. I think it’s the new job blues or. Or something.” Anyway, geeze. He is telling _way too much_ to someone he just stumbled upon. He pulls out his phone and checks the time. “I think that’s lunch. And I think I’ll consider a hula skirt next year. The traffic probably isn’t worth running home to change into something less formal before the party.”

“You could be _fashionably late_. You know, in both senses.”

There’s plenty of reasons not to. It’s a waste of time and gas. He could more easily step out and grab a dinner before the party and show up on time and put on a good face and try to socialize with a few of the folks he doesn’t know yet.

It’s time to step out of the bubble. He’s gonna be on this career track for a while. At least until he’s got enough of a name and enough experience to make partner at a firm back home. Or, better yet, open his own. Make his own hours. Be his own boss.

A little more aware of his social shortcomings, now, he points, “Phil?”

The guy nods. “He creates the tickets. ISS carries them out.”

Sam puts out his hand in offer. “And you?”

“Oh,” he shakes Sam’s hand. “Chuck.”

“You’re ISS, too?”

“Um. I work _with_ ISS. I work with a few of the departments. Technical Writer. You guys come up with the fine print in legal; I come up with the fine print on any of the instructional documents.”

“Like the HR manuals? The Employee Code?”

He shrugs and takes his hand back. “And stuff. Wrote the guide for the internal servers. Most of the SOPs. And this one time the interns didn’t understand how fax machines worked because they’re all basically four years old and I had to write them a pamphlet.”

Sam snorts. “Wow.”

Chuck nods like _tell me about it_.

“I’m Sam, by the way,” he sighs and shuffles a little. “And I’ll see you at the party. If you’re going?”

“Oh, definitely. I’m gonna need the booze.”

“I hear that’s a major selling point.”

Chuck eyes him for a moment. Blue-grey eyes sly and wise, leaning against the copier, assessing him. “If it gets too insufferable, you want a rescue?”

Sam smiles. He can start off with making this one friend. Guess the Christmas Party is already set up to be at least somewhat of a success. “Yeah, if you can swing it.”

He nods and hmms. “At the very least, I already recruited the audio guys to slip in a different playlist about a half hour into it so I won’t have to suffer with all the seasonal songs.”

“Starts at seven,” Sam considers. “Guess I’ll see you at 7:30, then?”

“Sounds about right.”

«»

Patience knocks on his open door near the end of the day wearing kind of a quizzical smile. “So. I’m trying to figure out who I have to thank.”

Sam laughs. “Lots of that going around, lately.”

“Well,” she steps in, “I already figured out who my Secret Santa is – she told me, anyway, ‘cause I can’t make the party tonight. She said it wasn’t her and... someone across the hall said you might have left the tea on my desk?”

He cringes just slightly. “Weird?”

She rolls her eyes and comes up and slaps a thank-you card on his desk. “Totally not weird. Also totally not necessary. We’re here for all that stuff I helped you with. We’re here for exactly that.” She knows she’s still lecturing him into believing that he can ask for help.

And he knows it _is_ , in fact a little weird. All that she helped him with was, very much, within the scope of her job. But. He just kinda needs people on his team. He just needs people to connect with and try to figure out this building and this job and this culture and the next year of his life as his duties pile up and his workload intensifies. “Put it this way,” he decides, “I’m gonna start your kettle in the morning because the next time you notice I’ve built up a fortress of paperwork around my office, I’ll still be two weeks away from getting around to cleaning it up.”

“I’ll come rescue you,” she nods in assurance. “I’ll remind you that we have file carts and nice, big drawers to hide everything in.”

“Thank you.”

He means it.

«»

At five, he strongly considers just going home.

Chuck had made it seem like that was a normal decision for some folks. But he got Patience on his side, tonight, and maybe somebody to talk to in Chuck. He can’t stop there. He should keep pushing. He should go and attempt to have fun. Or at least gawk at the outfits people choose to show up in.

Out the door, then, to a diner a few blocks over. They make a BLT almost as good as Dean would make him when he came home from college on the breaks, poor and worn. Comfort food.

Some good bread and a load of fries to soak up some of the alcohol, if he chooses to partake tonight.

He thumbs through Twitter as he eats and finds that he’s a little nervous of making a fool of himself in front of Chuck – in front of a new friend. It seems Madison’s absence isn’t going to save him from getting a little tipsy in front of attractive coworkers.

And he’s equally nervous about finding out who his Secret Santa is. Straight-up butterflies-in-the-stomach nervous about it.

He taps to open a blank post and types: **Kind of in love with my Secret Santa, whoever they are. This has been the best week of work since I started. Shame to end it with a gd holiday party.**

Charlie likes the post and replies, before he’s finished eating: **I hope the party disappoints your dread and is totally rad. Maybe Secret Santa will redeem Xmas for you!**

Thing is?  
They kind of already have.

He has no idea how anyone would know to give him the kinds of gifts he’s gotten this week. To top it off, the whole thing has kind of given him hope. He didn’t know he was in need of hope. He didn’t know he was kinda depressed about his job and about his place in the company.

It feels like he finally got to get off the grind for a while. It’s such a relief. And all the person had to do was, what? Cancel a meeting. Requisition him a webcam. Order takeout.

How do you even answer for that kind of generosity? He’s still at a loss as to whether or not he should, like, go out and get some extravagant gift for them and put it in their inbox when the office reopens. Or seriously rethink the silly gift he got for Ellen. Or, like... grab a slice of the French Silk pie on his way out of the diner and force it on his Secret Santa as soon as they reveal themselves, with more to come.

Sam’s walking back to the office, crossing busy streets when Dean’s response to his tweet comes up, so he doesn’t get to it until he’s back in the warmth of the lobby.

**@ everyone, sam is in love with his secret santa stay tuned ya boy has it on good authority SANTA is the one crushing on SAM**

Eight likes.  
Charlie and four other folks back home have responded with nothing but wide emoji eyes.

«»

Oh _holy fuck_.

For once in his life, he takes the elevator up to his office, just to catch his breath and stare at his phone screen.

«»

His guts are _scrambled_ by the time he makes it across the street to the hotel convention room reserved for the party.

People are just starting to show up. And sneaking in quick to pile up their Secret Santa gifts.

Sam pops Ellen’s up there real fast and stealth.

And his eyes go wide seeing a wrapped present already sitting there _with his name on it_.

As if his Secret Santa hadn’t already done enough for him.

Geeze.

He wanders over to scoop up a red wine and nurse it slow. A few of the lawyers from his division show up with their spouses in tow and he gets to concentrate on that for a while. Smiling, remembering names, making some nice chit-chat.

A few people come in with file carts, toting the last of the gifts for the exchange, protecting anonymity.

People slowly circle around to pick up their gifts and exclaim in surprise and take pictures with their benefactors, anonymous no more.

Ellen comes in and heads straight for him, which is surprising. “Hey??”

“Where’s the frigging food? I had to go drop my kid’s textbook off, I had _zero_ time to eat.”

“Oh,” he points her in the direction of the nearest tray he saw, floating by, and she practically stomps after it.

He’s suddenly a lot more confident about his gift.

Which is good. Because that’s where she heads next.

She picks through the packages and frowns, finding hers. She shakes the box as she walks back to their group and looks at a few of them, narrow-eyed.

The box rattles.

She stops at one of the high tables dotted across the room and breaks into the paper tentatively at first.

Then _rips it off_ like she’s ravenous.

“What is this,” she demands, even as she’s seeing that it’s a bunch of little packages of foreign candies.

There’s a subscription service. She’ll get a new box each month. She’s talked, before, about how she had all these grand plans to take her family on vacations across the world, but her stick-in-the mud husband was always too busy at work to make time for it. She wanted to eat around the world.

Now, Sam knew she meant, like, hand-made pasta in Italy and French pastries and sumptuous Argentinian empanadas and every regional cuisine in Southeast Asia. She had, after all, fantasied about them in lusty detail over some of their late-night pizzas.

But this is like a small taste of that.

Sam has a damn good poker face when he needs to have one, so she narrows it down to their team, but she doesn’t pin it on Sam until after she’s cornered six other lawyers who have been working on property rights with her.

She smiles this deadly smile and some internal alarm from boyhood must set off a tick in his face. He’s seen people get that look from their mom and it was never good.

Ellen grins for getting it and scoops him up a beer from the bar before leaning next to him to share these little coconut pieces from Jamaica.

“Thanks,” she’s short and gruff about it. There’s not gonna be a selfie and a big shout of joy like there has been, occasionally, across the room as people open their presents.

They listen as someone announces the winners of a raffle for some tickets to a college bowl game.

She elbows him. “Yours is up there. I saw it.”

“Yeah. You know who it is?”

“Boy, that ain’t how this works,” she chides. “You go up there and get it and you hassle everyone in the room until they howl.”

“You were gonna _hassle us_ until we-”

“Mine might be a more aggressive form of appreciation,” she cuts him off. “It is appreciation, nonetheless. Get. Go.” She pushes him and nods.

Sam takes a deep breath as the nerves make a return, both aided and abetted by the wine and beer, some swooping hope in his stomach, remembering Dean’s tweet. _Santa is the one crushing on Sam._ He polishes his bottle off and pats his hands dry on a cocktail napkin.

His box is where it was before.

**To: Sam Winchester**  
**From: Your Secret Santa**

He brings it over to one of the high tables and opens it as Brady wanders up to join him.

“Is that a shoe box?” he asks as Sam reveals... that very thing.

Inside, a pair of new shoes. Slip-on Converse. About six sizes too small for him.

Brady laughs. “Either your Secret Santa never met you or they’re really lame at pulling pranks,” he sips from a champagne flute.

Sam is baffled. His Secret Santa knows him better than anyone else in the building.

“Anyway,” Brady pulls silly string and a box of pop-its from his pocket and hands them over. “My Secret Santa knows how to prank _and_ party. Dude. Take it.” He looks around for witnesses until Sam stuffs them in his pockets. “I’ve been getting a can and a box every day for two weeks. He wants me to distribute them and, like, when they’re doing the toasts and speeches, shit is gonna _pop off_ in here,” he cackles, close and quiet.

Sam laughs. Brady _would_ think that was the perfect gift. “Do I wait for a signal?”

“When Singer raises his glass,” he winks.

“Got it, man. I’m gonna go find out who, um, is really bad at shopping for tall guys,” he motions with the shoe box.

Brady claps him on the shoulder and makes off to scoop up his own present, presumably, from the size and shape, another can of silly string and the box of pop-its he’s gonna keep for himself.

Sam turns with a sigh. One of the event staff takes his wrapping paper to toss it. Another swoops by with more wine and he takes another red.

He tucks the shoe box under his arm and wanders, trying to catch someone’s eyes. Trying to catch whoever is responsible for the shoes. He doesn’t want to hustle an answer out of anyone. And he’s kinda starting to wonder if he has two Secret Santas – the real one who doesn’t know his taste in shoes, and the person who has a crush on him, but didn’t actually pull his name for the game.

Sam chats with the people in his department some more until Ellen gives him a confused look, seeing the box. Instead of copping to his cowardice, he turns to wander some more, hoping his Secret Santa will basically just hop out and bite him.

He isn’t crazy about the wine and the drinking is making his confusion wrack him in a weird way.

This whole situation is odd enough. He doesn’t wanna be too blitzed to escape early and drive himself home.

Speaking of which, he spots Chuck over in the corner with just two other people, near the makeshift DJ setup. The Christmas music didn’t last for long, so he must have made that intervention he was talking about. No one is complaining. The music on, now, is some safe, pop stuff. A few of the folks who came with plus-ones are dancing.

Chuck raises his drink – looks like some of the harder stuff – and Sam nods, coming to join him.

“Shoebox,” he acknowledges when Sam comes close.

“Uh. Yeah.” He kinda doesn’t wanna talk about it, now, feeling more foolish by the minute. “Did you do the gift exchange thing?” he settles to a lean against the wall.

Chuck comes to his other side, pulling a handwritten card from his pocket. He opens it. “Everything I’ve ever wanted, honestly.”

Sam takes the card to read it. It’s titled: “Get Out of Jail Free Card.”

_Upon presentation of this document, Ash, the Excellent and Awesome, will cover for Chuck Shurley's absence in the event that he wishes to leave the office for a period not to exceed eight (8) hours._

Sam laughs and hands it back. “That’s fucking cool.”

Chuck takes it, eyes the box, but doesn’t say anything about it, for which he’s grateful. “So. Sick of the party yet?”

_Beyond belief._ He hesitates. “I’ve only seen one of the VPs. Seems like it’s not even in full swing, yet. How pathetic am I?” he sighs.

“Have they seen you?”

“Who?”

“Management?”

He shrugs. “Think so.”

“Okay. So you can bail,” he throws back the last of his drink and flags someone down for a beer.

“Ugh. Dude, I really need to figure out who gifted me this before I can go. If I don’t thank them, it makes me a total dick.”

“You still plan on thanking someone who got you shoes that are ten sizes too small,” he laughs a little.

“Of course, man. It’s Christmas. It’s the thought that counts, you know? I mean.” He’s at a loss, really. He had been concerned about encountering this mystery figure who managed to flip his life to rights in just a matter of days. Now he doesn’t know _who_ he’s dealing with. But that doesn’t change much. He’s gotta do this. He’s gotta know.

Chuck quietly considers him for a long while. Like he’s charmed. “You really are a pure, good soul, aren’t you, Sam?”

He rolls his eyes.

“I’m in such deep shit,” Chuck sighs.

“Why?”

He kinda waves it off and moves to grab a complicated-looking snack from one of the wait staff.

“We’re both ready to go, trust me,” Chuck tips his beer in salute, then knocks a good deal of it back. He makes a point of raising the hors-d’oeuvre so Sam can see it. Then pops it in his mouth, chews.

And leans over, puking all over his own feet.

“Holy shit,” Sam startles and puts his glass down – immediately his instincts kick in from long years of college parties. He keeps his box tucked under his arm and flags down some event staff to get at the spill. Someone runs for towels, so at least he knows they spotted the mess.

Sam moves to pull the beer from Chuck’s hands and herds him off to the exit. He doesn’t toss the bottle until they get to the bathroom down the hall.

Chuck seems completely able to stand on his own – he didn’t even seem that drunk, before. Sam grabs paper towels and doesn’t know what else to do until Chuck straightens up and gives him a status report. “You okay, man?” that was all really sudden.

Chuck nods and moves to kick out of his shoes. Dumps them in the trash and then washes his hands.

And then he grabs the shoebox from Sam, who’s too startled to stop him.

Chuck pulls the shoes out, snags off a tag, and slips them on.

A perfect fit.

Sam stops. Blinks. Realizes Chuck didn’t actually _puke_.

He just made it look like he did.

Chuck nods. “Now you’re free to escape the party. Just tell everyone I was so fucked up you had to drive me home.”

Sam looks down at the shoes. Back up at Chuck, who is absolutely clear-eyed and no worse for wear.

“Merry Christmas, if that’s your thing,” Chuck shrugs. “I’m serious,” he adds. “That was the last present, you’re home-free, dude.”

“O-oh my _god_ ,” Sam stares. At this clever man who he has, in every sense of the phrase, overlooked since he started his job here. This person who took the time to know him, entirely, when he was too busy to so much as make friends or look up from his desk. This charming, perfect, compact man whose eyes seem to see everything and who spent the last week making Sam’s life better in small ways that added up to huge change. “You’re the Secret Santa,” he eventually spouts like a total dork.

Chuck shrugs. “Come on, I can sneak us to the parking garage.”

He moves past Sam and goes to the door.

“Wai-wait,” Sam says, nonsensically.

Chuck turns to take the box and trash it but Sam wants it. No idea why, he just – it’s _his_ and he hugs it to himself.

Chuck laughs at him a little, “Um. Okay.” Then turns to crack open the door just a sliver.

Sam gets close up to his back and looks out, over his head.

He tries to get a good look, too.

Chuck reaches back. Doesn’t try to take his box away again, just offers.

Sam gives him his hand and he goes with when Chuck darts from the restroom.

They dash the opposite way down the hall, to a side entrance. They hit the street and Chuck pretty much drags him to the crosswalk and only lets go once they get to the garage.

He breathes relief and smiles up at Sam.

And. Well.

Since Chuck has a crush on him and he didn’t really puke and Sam’s pretty much fallen in love with him, this week, without even knowing him, Sam backs him up to a handicap parking sign and plants a kiss on his mouth.

Chuck doesn’t return it which is totally fair. Sam kind of... ambushed him.

He breathes the cold air for a minute and shivers once. “Your brother asked me to convince you to go to the party somehow. He wanted you to make some bad decisions for once.”

“That sounds like Dean. You know what he told me?”

Chuck blushes too warm for the cold weather. “Probably that I said you were tall, dark and handsome, just dark in the kinda broody way, which is super hot.” He actually looks _concerned_ to be admitting it.

Sam smiles. “Thank you. For the best gifts ever.”

He comes in close. They left their jackets and he’ll worry about that later. Sam would rather Chuck didn’t freeze before kissing him back properly. “You’ll have to try again next year. It’s definitely not a bad decision to drive you back to my place and start the holiday weekend right.”

In response, Chuck reaches up with a soft look. Sam gets in tight to grab him up and hug him.

“You liked everything?”

“ _Everything_ ,” he nods into Chuck’s neck. “Absolutely all of it.”

“You can definitely take me home from the Christmas party.”

“Bonus gift,” Sam smiles. “Better than free booze and a raffle.”

He pulls to walk Chuck to the elevator and gets him into the car as quickly as possible.

When he rounds back to the driver’s side, he considers the shoebox.

This silly shoebox. He stows it in the trunk. Probably destined to hold a new Christmas gift, somewhere down the line. When he wants to watch Chuck blush again.

They sit in the car for a while, waiting to heat up, and when Sam looks over, Chuck is already staring.

Chuck reaches and Sam leans down eagerly, finally able to give _him_ something, starting with at least a hundred kisses.

«»

Sam remembers seeing Chuck once. Just once before their conversation in the ISS bullpen.

This can only mean that Sam was right. He needs to pay more attention to the people around him. Has to shake off the funk and insecurities about working at this new place. He can pick up and change jobs and still prosper. He’s proving that right now.

Pining for home isn’t an excuse for anything. He just has to make time to call Dean, occasionally visit, and he’ll be fine.

Now is about setting up for his future.

He strokes Chuck’s side in the dim morning light. No alarms to wake them up and no rush to pick up their clothes and scramble for the door.

When Chuck finally blinks, Sam smiles. “Hey, Cinderella.”

“Oh, that’s cute. With the shoes. I get it.”

“Should have walked around the room trying to find who fit them. You have tiny feet. Tiny everything.”

“Everything?”

“Well. Not everything,” Sam concedes, pressing close to kiss him. “Clearly you have a really big... heart.”

Chuck laughs.

“Big presents,” Sam continues, reaching into the sheets to gather him up. “Best one I unwrapped right here last night.”

“Big holiday spirit?”

“Is that what you call your dick?” Sam feigns surprise and enjoys how it feels when Chuck laughs against him. Presses close.

“Yeah, I’m in deep shit,” Chuck tapers off, repeating something he said at the party last night.

“How do you mean?”

Chuck rolls his eyes at himself. “You didn’t even notice me. And now... dude, I hunted through your office. I had my friend in engineering hack into your email. _I talked to your brother._ I’ve got it bad and it was all because I was a total creeper,” he laments.

“For Secret Santa. Dude, holiday office games and shit – they’re designed to, like, force a sense of camaraderie and teamwork and whatever. And then everybody ignores that it also crosses into a total invasion of privacy. If you broke through my self-made fucking _dungeon_ and found me hiding in that office and you somehow came out of it having a _crush on me??_ How lucky am I?”

Chuck starts to protest, but Sam won’t let him take the burden of this.

“Look,” he says, “if my head weren’t up my ass, I would have found you eventually,” he lets go to press Chuck down, lie him back. He pushes the sheets away to expose him. To look and stare and lick his lips. Touch him and plan out what he wants to do to him today. Before and after breakfast. “You’re fucking beautiful. I hope I would have found you, eventually. Because you’re smart and hot and you care and I’m not stupid. I would have figured out, eventually, that you were what I needed. I didn’t notice you before,” he admits. “You’ve got my attention, now, though.” He runs a hand down Chuck’s belly to his cock and gathers him up in both hands. Definitely _not_ tiny everywhere. “Now tell me how you wanna be thanked, for real.”

“Um,” his voice goes thin and his eyes wide. He touches Sam’s thighs where they straddle him. “You can keep doing that.”

Sam has a theory and he’s paying attention, now. He should be able to read Chuck if Chuck was able to read him so well. “I’m thinking you want my mouth.”

“Um, that would be. That would be, like. Cool.”

Sam smiles. “I don’t think you want eggs. I don’t think you like them. I think you’re more into pancakes.”

“Damn. You’re good.”

Sam kisses him before scooting back to mouth and lick down his body.

He _is_ good.

For Chuck – and with him and his presents – he’ll be even better.


End file.
